The mana beetle moved before Marco finished drawing.
Its shell scraped stone as it came out from under the bait tray, six jointed legs carrying it sideways with startling speed. The green sight pin crossed the seam behind its head and kept going.
Marco released anyway.
The arrow struck the gallery wall.
Carbon snapped with a sound like a dry branch. Half the shaft spun across the floor. The beetle stopped, antennae lifted, then disappeared behind the steel tray.
Marco stood at full extension with an empty bow, listening to his breath tear in and out of the quiet lane.
“Safe,” Ray said behind him.
Marco lowered the bow.
The red boundary line remained in front of his boots. The portable gate behind Ray remained latched. The beetle had not crossed the bait pocket or vanished into one of the drainage cracks the sensors could not read. Nothing had happened outside the assignment's expected risk.
He had simply missed.
At fourteen dollars on Ridgeway's inventory, not his household's. The distinction mattered. The broken shaft still belonged in a report.
The morning had begun at Ridgeway's equipment cage.
Marco arrived with his authorization visible in the employee portal. The quartermaster inspected the signed restrictions, then unlocked the dungeon-ammunition cabinet.
“Controlled G-grade pests,” she said.
“With an authorized lead.”
“Range?”
“Fifteen yards or less.”
She selected eight plain dungeon-rated carbon arrows from Ridgeway's contract stock. No enchanted heads. No bright marketing claims. Reinforced inserts and conductive weave rated for G-grade sites and low F-grade threat exposure.
“Fourteen each if we have to replace them,” she said. “Ridgeway pays because Ridgeway sent you underground. You still account for every shaft.”
The shafts had orange-and-white vanes so they could be found under work lights. Ms. Pritchard spun each arrow, flexed it, and made Marco repeat the inspection.
“You lose one, you tell your lane lead,” she said. “You hit a hard surface, the arrow is suspect even if it looks straight. You recover a shaft from a carcass, gloves first. Some body fluids degrade bonding.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. Miss safely.”
He looked at her.
“Everybody misses,” she said. “The question is what the arrow finds instead.”
The arrows went into a numbered work quiver that stayed inside the Ridgeway cage when he clocked out. They did not become Marco's property because his name appeared on the issue sheet.
Eight intact.
The count made the equipment feel less like sporting gear and more like a company tool that could fly out of reach.
At Ridgeway, Ray checked every shaft again.
“Quartermaster already did that.”
“Then you should be twice as confident.”
“You trust her.”
“I trust my own name on the lane sheet.”
Dana joined them by the Zone 1 equipment cage. She scanned Marco’s authorization, the arrow batch, and the bow’s service tag.
“Today is beetles only,” she said. “You are not independent weapons staff. You do not leave this route carrying a nocked arrow. If Control changes the lane status, you let down and wait. If Mercer calls safe, you let down and wait.”
“Understood.”
“If you hit infrastructure, you report the arrow and the infrastructure.”
“Also understood.”
“Good. I prefer workers to know which rule hurts.”
They descended with the work bow locked in its case until they reached the monitored service spur. The elevator smelled of wet coveralls and machine oil. The ammunition cost would never reach Emma's household sheet. That was what employment was supposed to mean: the company owned the job, the harvest, and the ordinary cost of doing it.
At Zone Zero, the weapon scanner blinked OUT OF CALIBRATION. The security clerk opened the case, compared the bow's serial number to a printed armory sheet, counted the arrow bundle, called Ray to confirm the lane, and fixed a yellow plastic seal through the latches.
“Seal gets broken at the lane by your lead,” she said. “If you come back with it broken and no lane entry, you get to spend the afternoon with Compliance.”
“What do they hunt?”
“Signatures.”
Ray carried the case after the checkpoint.
“I can carry my own bow.”
“I know. If we kill it, you field-pack the shell while I watch the route.”
“Confident.”
“That we’ll produce a carcass? Yes. Which one of us produces it remains open.”
They stopped at Control and waited while an earlier team cleared the neighboring gallery. Through the observation window, Marco saw two pest workers roll out a sealed field tote. Split shell plates and clamped resin sacs showed through its clear upper panel; the rest of the beetles had stayed behind in a marked render wrap. One worker had a compact crossbow slung behind his shoulder. The other carried a long forked pole and complained that the night shift had baited the channels with spoiled fish again.
The work looked ordinary in their hands.
Marco wanted that ordinariness. Wanting it did not make him ready for it.
Ray signed the pest-work board, then pointed at the line showing expected material recovery.
“Why is that on a pest ticket?” he asked.
“Recovered shell and glands are the product.”
“Pest removal is the product. Bodies reduce the cost. If production pressure makes you wait for a better shot while a beetle crosses yellow, what wins?”
“Safety.”
“Say the less pretty version.”
“I ruin the shell.”
“Right. You can lose fourteen dollars, eighteen dollars, and every plate on the body. You cannot lose the lane.”
Control cleared other crews from Gallery Seven and assigned the spur to Ray. The yellow seal came off under the security camera. Marco assembled nothing—the compound bow did not need assembly—but even opening the case felt procedural now.
He counted the arrows aloud.
Eight intact.
The beetle gallery lay in an old Zone 1 service spur behind one permanent mesh gate. Ray added a portable barrier at the crew entrance and clipped sensor bells across a narrow side cut. Work lights cast hard white pools along the stone. The dungeon wall beyond them had been drilled for anchors and patched with mana-resistant grout, but thumb-wide drainage cracks continued behind the repairs.
Control confirmed that adjacent freight had stopped, the near approach had been swept, and no second heat signature showed on the available sensors. It could not see through the drainage cracks or promise that the reading would remain true.
“North Gallery Seven held for pest work. Bait channel active. One heat signature in feed recess.”
Ray answered, “Lane team entering. Mercer lead, Hale trainee. Eight arrows.”
They inspected the portable backstop together. Thick rubber slabs covered a sloped steel plate anchored against an old ore face. The bait tray sat twelve yards from the firing line with a narrow opening beneath it. Ground mushroom meal and spoiled gland tissue filled its center.
Ridgeway called the spur monitored, not sealed. The gate controlled people. The backstop controlled a reasonable arrow path. Ray controlled the space Marco needed to shoot. None of them controlled what the dungeon stone might release after the last sweep.
Mana beetles carried a standard G-grade threat profile because a trained Awakened worker could usually kill one without much danger. The label described the expected animal under expected conditions, not the whole room and not a guarantee. Usually did not mean harmless. The one in the recess was as long as Marco’s forearm. Its mandibles could open a boot and the foot inside it if given time.
The gate, Ray, and the backstop made that unlikely.
Marco’s pulse ignored the distinction.
Ray took position behind and to his left. He carried a short steel-shafted spear and a heavy clear shield for emergency control.
“Sequence,” Ray said.
“Lane light green. Neighboring crews held. Entry gate latched. Side cut alarmed. One detected beetle. Backstop good. Eight arrows.”
“If you miss?”
“Stay behind red. Reassess.”
“If it charges?”
“Bait barrier should turn it. If it crosses yellow, let down and step behind you.”
“Where am I?”
“Behind me with the shield.”
Ray nodded toward the tray. “Call for bait.”
Marco keyed the wall control. The tray’s inner panel opened, exposing the scent mixture.
Shell scratched stone.
The beetle emerged, and all Marco’s careful sequence collapsed into the first bad shot.
Now half an arrow lay beside the wall.
The beetle had retreated under steel. The bait smell remained. Beyond it, the drainage cracks stayed black. Marco’s bow hand trembled.
“What happened?” Ray asked.
“I shot before I had the pin.”
“Why?”
“It moved.”
“Beetles are known for that.”
Marco closed his eyes for one breath, then opened them. The monitored conditions remained unchanged. He had seven arrows, not zero. The beetle had learned that the open gallery contained noise, which might make it slower to return or send it through a route the sensor could not follow.
“Reset bait?” he asked.
“Your call.”
Marco looked at the tray. The feed recess had a second sliding panel that would stir the scent mixture without opening a new path. He activated it.
The motor hummed. Mushroom meal shifted.
Nothing emerged.
Thirty seconds passed.
Holding the bow up would only tire him. Marco lowered it and waited with an arrow nocked but pointed at the floor stop. His heartbeat slowed enough for him to hear ventilation again.
The beetle tested the air with one antenna.
Marco did not draw.
Its head appeared. Then the forward shell plate.
It angled toward the bait instead of running across the lane. Marco raised the bow and drew through the weight. The cams rolled over. He found anchor.
Exhale.
The green pin floated over the shell seam. The beetle moved, but this time the movement was not a command. Marco tracked it a few inches and felt his shoulder begin to tighten.
Too long.
He let down.
The beetle fed.
Ray said nothing.
Marco waited until his arm settled, drew again, and anchored. The pin crossed the seam. He kept pressure through the release.
The bow kicked.
The arrow struck behind the beetle’s head with a hard crack. Its front legs collapsed. The body spun, shell hammering the floor. The arrow had passed through the softer joint and lodged at an angle in the thorax.
The beetle continued moving.
Marco reached for another arrow.
“Wait,” Ray said.
Its rear legs scraped twice, then slowed. The mandibles opened and closed against stone. After ten seconds, the body went still.
Marco kept the bow ready.
“Do not assume,” Ray said.
They watched for a full minute. Control’s heat display faded from active red to residual orange.
Ray declared the immediate lane clear. That meant they could approach under guard, not that the gallery had become safe. He kept the shield toward the feed recess while Marco crossed the boundary.
The missed arrow was finished. One half had split lengthwise; the other had lost its insert against the wall. Marco collected both pieces for the damage log.
The arrow in the beetle had survived. He did not pull it yet.
“Seven intact?” Ray asked.
“Six unused. One in target.”
“Good.”
Marco crouched near the beetle. Up close, it smelled of wet copper and mushrooms. Thin blue mana light pulsed once beneath the shell and went out. There was no dropped item, no coin, no convenient prize—only a heavy insect body and an arrow that might be ruined.
His first live kill felt smaller than he had imagined and more final.
“You all right?” Ray asked.
“Yes.”
“Scale.”
Marco understood. “Hands four. Breathing two.”
“Don’t lie because the target is dead.”
“Hands five.”
Ray braced the shield with one knee and showed him how to pin the beetle before touching the arrow. They wore chemical gloves. Marco cut around the wound with a field knife, following the pressure Salvage placed on the shell seam while Ray continued watching the recess.
The skill suggested the main back plate remained intact if he did not pry against the fracture. The arrow had missed the cheap central ridge and entered through softer tissue. Bad for a clean specimen. Better than smashing the shell.
Marco eased the arrow free. The shaft spun true on the inspection plate. The head needed cleaning and the vane had a shallow cut, but the arrow remained usable.
Seven intact arrows.
One broken.
“Field sequence,” Ray said.
Ray gave Marco three minutes before scent, uncertainty, and the open side cut made the remaining value irrelevant. Confirm death. Vent the remaining mana heat through the chest seam. Remove the volatile digestive sac before it leaked into the shell. Separate mandibles and clean back plate. Tag wound, time, and gallery. Seal each grade apart.
His first cut wandered. Ray corrected it without looking away from the dark.
“Faster doesn't mean careless,” he said. “It means decide before the knife touches.”
Marco recovered the back plate, both mandibles, and a strip of binding membrane. The rest went into a render bag. Four compact packages replaced one awkward body.
Something scraped behind the bait tray during the final seal.
Ray stood at once. “Done. Move.”
Marco left a narrow piece of usable membrane attached to the render section. Salvage still noticed it as he closed the bag. The gallery did not owe him enough time to collect every possible dollar.
At Ridgeway's surface post-processing bay, a technician weighed the field packs and graded them under a bright lamp.
“Entry joint damage,” she said. “Back plate clean. Mandibles intact.”
Ray held up the missed shaft pieces. “Infrastructure took one.”
“Infrastructure pays badly.”
The technician entered the yield. The pest contract assigned Marco an eighteen-dollar removal bonus because the shell remained processable.
He signed beside the number.
Fourteen dollars in company ammunition broken. Eighteen dollars in employee bonus earned. The pest removal itself, not the material, remained the job.
The technician cleaned and precision-trimmed the field pieces while Marco watched. Salvage kept drawing his attention to small choices: angle the blade beneath the plate, not through it; preserve the pale membrane near the base; keep wash fluid away from the mandibles.
He had made the kill. She recovered more value from it in four practiced minutes than he could have managed in twenty.
That fact did not diminish the shot. It located it.
“Why keep the membrane?” Marco asked.
The technician held it up with blunt forceps. Translucent tissue stretched between two shell segments.
“Cheap binding agent once it’s dried. Three dollars a pound on a good contract.”
“That weighs an ounce.”
“Exactly.”
She dropped it into a tray already holding dozens of pale scraps. “One ounce is garbage. Three hundred ounces keep the dryer running for an hour. Your Salvage telling you to save it?”
“Something like that.”
“Then make sure the time works. I can strip that membrane in six seconds. A beginner takes a minute and cuts into the plate.”
Marco watched her repeat the motion on the opposite side. Six seconds might have been generous.
“What did the arrow damage cost?”
She pointed with the forceps. “Entry split knocks maybe two dollars off the side plate. Tissue channel is irrelevant. You had hit center shell, we’d lose eight or ten. Mandible strike ruins another four. Wall costs you the whole arrow.”
“I had calculated that part.”
“Everybody calculates after.”
The body yielded no core and no magical item. Most mana beetles did not have a discrete core worth recovering, only diffuse residue in shell and tissue. The final processor estimate came to twenty-three dollars in usable material, most of which belonged to ADR under the pest contract.
Marco’s eighteen was a removal bonus, not a loot share.
He wrote the distinction on the back of the material ticket.
Ray waited until they had logged the field packs and cleaned the work bow before speaking.
“First arrow was bad.”
“I noticed.”
“Second draw was better.”
“I didn’t shoot.”
“That was why.”
Marco wiped the arrow shaft again. “Third draw?”
“Adequate.”
From Ray, the word had room to grow.
The System notices appeared while Marco locked the seven intact arrows into his assigned cage.
Bow acquired: Level 1.
He stood with one hand on the cage door.
The skill named what his work had finally made repeatable. The broken shaft remained in the disposal tube, and the next beetle would still move.
Ray glanced at him. “Notice?”
“Bow one.”
“Congratulations.”
Marco waited for the correction.
Ray nodded toward the disposal tube. “Now remember what it cost.”
The broken arrow was visible through the clear panel, orange-and-white vanes against black carbon splinters.
Marco entered the eighteen-dollar work bonus in Emma’s sheet that night.
The broken shaft did not appear as a household expense. It lived on Ridgeway's issue log: eight work arrows received, one destroyed against stone, seven returned to the locked cage.
Emma checked the distinction twice. “So you don't pay for their ammunition.”
“Not for their dungeon or their beetle.”
“Good. Getting eaten for somebody else's contract is already enough employee contribution.”
Lucy sat across from them drawing a beetle for her homemade field guide. She had given it eyelashes and eight legs.
“Six,” Marco said.
“Mine is magic.”
“The real one was also magic. Six.”
She erased two legs with visible disappointment, then wrote mana lines: attracted to them beneath the picture.
“What did it eat before it found your bait?” she asked.
“Fungus. Resin. Sometimes cable covering.”
“So it wasn't evil.”
“No.” Marco looked at the six-legged drawing. “It was an animal in a place where animals and power cables don't mix.”
Lucy considered that and added dangerous, not evil in smaller letters.
Sarah listened from the counter while she sliced apples. “How close did it get?”
“It stayed in the bait zone.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Marco thought back to the beetle appearing before his draw finished, the sight pin crossing empty stone, and the crack of the arrow.
“Not close. Ray kept the lane between it and us.”
“How scared were you?”
Emma looked up from the sheet.
Marco could have made the answer easier for everyone. “Enough to waste the first shot.”
Sarah nodded once and returned to the apples. “Thank you.”
Lucy held up the corrected beetle. “Did it look like this?”
“No.”
“Can I still add fire?”
“Also no.”
Emma opened a new section under progression. “Level six. Bow one.”
Seeing the words in her handwriting made the gain feel both more real and less impressive. Ethan had reached Level 8 weeks ago. Marco had needed repaired equipment, range fees, repeated misses, a bruise, a bent practice arrow, and a live target.
Sarah set an apple slice beside his notebook. “Are you pleased?”
Marco looked at the small positive daily total, the separate Ridgeway issue ledger, and the skill the System had finally agreed to name.
“Yes.”
Emma closed the daily row and opened two equipment tabs. RIDGEWAY ISSUE: seven intact work arrows, one broken. MARCO PERSONAL: ten practice arrows, no dungeon arrows yet. The broken shaft stayed visible without pretending it belonged to him.
“Next time you get eighteen dollars, you keep eighteen?” Lucy asked.
“Before taxes.”
“Taxes are the real monster.”
Marco considered explaining moving targets, stone walls, and carbon fatigue. Lucy had already reduced the problem to its most financially useful form.
“I’ll add that to the plan.”
The next pest call would begin with Bow Level 1 and seven intact company arrows.